Kyra Davis is the author of the NY Times bestselling Just One Night and the upcoming DECEPTIVE INNOCENCE which is part of Kyra’s new series Pure Sin.

Just One Night is being released for the first time in paperback on December 31st. It was published as an e-only serialization earlier this year and went on to be a New York Times bestseller and the first NY Times bestseller for the Pocket Star!

<— Part 1, 2 & 3 – oh cool! Take out the spaces between each book and it’s ONE gorgeous picture!

Curious to know what it’s about?:

Part 1 of Deceptive Innocence—the first book in the sensual, thrilling Pure Sin trilogy by New York Times bestselling author Kyra Davis (Just One Night). A beautiful young woman is out for revenge—only to find the man she’s targeting has secrets as dangerous as her own, and a passion she cannot resist.

Ever since her mother died while serving time for a murder she didn’t commit, Bell’s been focused on one thing: revenge. She knows her mother was set up by the head of the powerful Gable family, international bankers who will crush anyone for profit, or amusement. Now she’s determined to take the Gables down—from the inside.

Seducing her way into the life—and bed—of the family’s rebellious youngest son, Lander, she figures it should be easy to uncover the secrets she needs to destroy his family. But Lander turns out to be much more complicated than Bell ever could have imagined. He’s enticing, intelligent, mysterious—and their sexual chemistry is off the charts. Lander is still the target, but once Bell gives in to her desire to touch him, he starts seeming much less like an enemy… Which is why her anger is more necessary than ever: Memories of her mother must help fuel her quest for justice to the very end.

<— hehe. Clever!

Also: Collateral Damage, the second book in the Pure Sin series, will be released in December 2014 and Dangerous Alliance, the third book, will follow March 2015.

Lander was wise enough not to take his limo into Harlem, so we’ve caught a cab. We’re sitting only a few feet away from each other, not talking, not touching, just . . . thinking.

I’m fiddling with my garnet ring, trying to lay out a plan for the evening. I’ve never had sex with a man for anything other than the satisfaction of my own desire, but I’m ready to make the sacrifice for the sake of my cause. I’ve prepared myself for that.

So sleeping with the enemy isn’t a problem . . . but wanting to sleep with the enemy is.

That’s something I’m not prepared for at all. Over the last few days his self-possession, quiet intelligence, and savagery have been wearing on my defenses. Like the effect of waves against a cliff, the erosion isn’t immediately devastating but it’s noticeable.

He reaches over and touches my leg, his eyes still on the window. His fingers move up and down, his caress almost casual . . . almost. But there’s a soft rhythm to his movement as his fingers rise a little higher, pushing my hem up ever so slightly, then sliding down again to my knee. It’s not demanding or insistent. Just confident. Confident in what he’s allowed and what boundaries he’s able to push.

Being touched by this man, this man who represents so many things that I hate . . . It should be awful.

When the cab drops us off at his Upper East Side building, he greets the doorman with a word and leads me to the rear of the lobby, his hand on the small of my back.

“Cool digs,” I say as he pulls me onto the elevator. When I turn, I more fully take in the lush entry area, its crown molding, its expensive furniture, its little touches of decadence.

“It could be worse,” he admits, sticking his key into the slot that will allow us to get to his penthouse. The doors close and he turns to me. “Do you like elevators, Bell?” He steps forward, into my space. Instinctively I step back, but that only serves to bring me up against the wall. His lips touch mine so gently it’s practically a caress, nearly innocent.

And yet.

I feel his hands move up to my waist as his mouth quietly, softly moves down to my chin, my neck . . .

“The doors could open at any moment,” I say. I try to add a little laugh, but the sound comes out as a staccato breath.

“Yes,” he says, “they could.”

He leans into me, and his body is different than I thought it would be—harder, stronger.

He doesn’t know who I really am; he can’t.

His hands are on my hips, and the hem of my dress inches up as his grip becomes firmer, more demanding.

I close my eyes just as the elevator slows to a stop. He pulls away, but only a little. “Welcome to my home.”

Slowly I open my eyes again and step into his penthouse. The art pieces on the wall are originals, mostly by artists I don’t know . . . except for the charcoal nude rendered by Degas.

This man owns a Degas.

I don’t comment on it. Instead I just continue down the hall past the kitchen, the home office, into what serves as a living room.

One wall is lined with books, the other with windows. In the corner is a small bar, stocked with expensive bottles that look as decorative as they do sinful.

“You have a view of Central Park.” I step up to the wall of glass and stare down at the dimly lit landscape. I can feel his eyes on me. . . . It’s almost like he’s touching me.

This man is my enemy.

“If I lived your life I would go to all the fancy parties,” I say lightly. “I bet you get invited to all sorts of red-carpet affairs. I bet you could be in a tux every night of the week if you wanted to be.”

“No man wants to be in a tux every night.” He pauses, leans back on his heels. “I’d like to guess your name now.”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow . . . in the morning.” He comes to my side, reaches up, pushes my hair behind my shoulders. “Tonight I want to know if you’re like your namesake. Are you a goddess of war?”

“I’m not a goddess,” I say quietly.

“And yet I bet you’d hold your own on a battlefield.” His fingers slide down my neck. I expect him to lean in for a kiss again, but he doesn’t. Instead he just lets his fingers go to the scooped neckline of my dress, tracing it lightly, watching me. When his fingers move lower, over my dress, over the curve of my breast, I look away.

“No, no, warrior,” he whispers, taking his other hand and turning my face back to him. “Keep your eyes on me. I want you to see me seeing you. I want you to look into my eyes when I touch you.”

Part of me wants to say no. I hadn’t planed for this level of intimacy. I don’t know how to handle it.

But this is the path I’ve chosen. It’s a path that can lead me to my revenge. And without revenge I have nothing. My whole life will be nothing.

His fingers continue to caress, running up and down my breasts. I feel my nipples harden. The fabric of my dress is thick enough to conceal them and yet as he looks down at me I’m sure he knows. It’s in his smile, in the mischievous glint in his eyes.

His hands move lower, over my stomach, lower to the hem of my dress, then just below it, forcing his hand between my legs as I lean my back against the window, suddenly needing support. The glass is so clean it looks like I’m leaning against air itself, as if I’m on the verge of falling.

Maybe I am.

Slowly he raises his hand, raising my dress again as he does. The feeling of his palm against the inside of my leg makes me squirm, but as instructed I keep my eyes on his, watching him watching me.

“Do you know what I’m going to do next, Bellona?”

I nod.

“Tell me.”

“You’re going to move your hand up . . . to my thong.”

“And when I touch your thong, will it be wet?”

My heart is beating at an uncomfortable pace. “Yes,” I whisper.

His hand goes up, touches my panties, moving his hand back and forth. It’s such a thin strip of fabric, no protection at all really.

About Me

I am happily addicted to reading but I need to expend my book energy (especially when one puts me in an emotional frenzy - SO fun!). So, I release my feelings about the stories, by writing them down here. It's my book therapy. [ read more ]